


Smoothly into the Night

by Dead_walking



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-05-13 20:37:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5716258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dead_walking/pseuds/Dead_walking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Poe loses himself but finds Finn in the process.<br/>* * *<br/>Poe; yes, that’s right. It rings true like the sound of engines turning on in the distance. Presses itself into his skin with the dirt that vibrates against his back as the ground begins to rumble under him. It’s solid, familiar and comfortable in its use that Poe lets his muscles uncoil enough for the rock to slide out of his palm. If Poe’s wrong in trusting Green Jacket, he likely won’t have the opportunity to be wrong for long. “Never better,” Poe quips, voice as raw as sand. “Just had,” he pauses, “a little misstep.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smoothly into the Night

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: Poe has a habit of waking up without short term memory. It's up to you to decide who he's with and how he reacts to the characters around him.

He wakes to a pain that threatens to tear his head apart like a crater. When his vision refuses to clear after a few strained seconds, he’s forced to shut his eyes against the nausea that’s building in his throat. “Kriffling,” he grunts, throwing a hand over his face. Pain flares through his muscles from the movement, ripping a labored moan from his gut when his fingers happen to land on the source of the ache. There, just below his hairline, is a gash, deep and long like a trench.

 _Why is it always the face_ , he thinks, though the thought is quickly replaced by a more encompassing: _okay, it’s not just the face_ when he tries to shift his body. With bits of debris from the partially caved in building still settled on top of him like paperweights, he doesn’t need to waste time figuring out the cause of his head wound. What he does need is a place to go to ground until he’s recovered. He may not know where he is, but he sure as the moon knows he can’t recover here, in the middle of – in the middle of what, exactly?

Wiping away blood that’s still thick on his forehead, he steadies himself with a breath before cracking his eyes open. Everything looks smeared, like the visor on his helmet fogged over but he’s not wearing his helmet, and the Black One isn’t in view. Not a crash then, but he doesn’t see bodies other than his own to indicate there was a struggle. Not a single stormtrooper or raider, no signs of pirates or thieves; just him and the crumbled remains of a wall that’s still wafting dust like smoke. At least, he thinks it’s just him until he hears the steady thump of footsteps running towards him.

Reaching for a blaster he can’t seem to find, he instead grabs a large piece of rubble and brings it close to his chest. Adrenaline flows through his veins like a fleet of X-Fighters as he readies himself to attack. Fully aware he likely has one chance to get this right, he starts calculating trajection rates and angle of approach. He may not be in the Black One, but the concept remains the same. Hit them before they hit you and he grips the stone tight in anticipation to do just that. He’s been taken alive before, has felt the Force invade his mind like a parasite, weaving through memories and drawing out information he wanted to keep locked up tight. The shudder that passes through him only fills him with resolve; he’ll take a broken body over betraying the cause.

His plan to attack is momentarily halted by a breathless: “Oh, thank the stars. Pava, I have eyes on him; looks hurt.”

“Bad?” A female – Pava? - yells from behind. He doesn’t risk straining his neck to get a clear picture of the arrivals; if they meant to hurt him, he’d be dead the second they noticed he was still breathing.

“I don’t know,” the man responds before dropping to his knees besides him. The stranger’s wearing a jacket he swears he has hanging in his closet, the forest green contrasting nicely with the tone of his skin. His muscles are tense but show no indication of drawing the blaster that’s holstered near his leg. Not an enemy then, and likely not a hostile. That’s something he can work with, he’s good a working with things, or so he thinks.

Closing an eye to better focus on the stranger, he hones in on the weapon, quickly noticing the modifications; it's Resistance make, of that, he’s sure. It’s not enough to make him relax entirely, but he feels his shoulder lose their edge of tension. Seemingly unconcerned with the carnage surrounding them, Green Jacket leans in close, easy breathing going ragged when he spots the blood still making its way down his face. “That doesn’t look so good,” he says, hand shooting straight to his face without hesitation, “Is it bad?” He pulls a face, “of course it’s bad.”

Taken back by the contact, he doesn’t answer immediately, which prompts a more assertive: “You with me? I need to know how bad it is.” Green Jacket is looking him over with frantic eyes, finger pressing against his temples. He should say something, but he's caught off guard by Green Jack's eyes. It’s like looking into a memory he can’t place, like hearing the echo of his mother’s voice when he knows he forgot the sound. “Damnit Poe, are you okay?”

Poe; yes, that’s right. It rings true like the sound of engines turning on in the distance. Presses itself into his skin with the dirt that vibrates against his back as the ground begins to rumble under him. It’s solid, familiar and comfortable in its use that Poe lets his muscles uncoil enough for the rock to slide out of his palm. If Poe’s wrong in trusting Green Jacket, he likely won’t have the opportunity to be wrong for long. “Never better,” Poe quips, voice as raw as sand. “Just had,” he pauses, “a little misstep.”

“A little misstep?”

“Finn,” Pava calls again from behind them. “How bad?” There’s an urgency in her voice Poe recognizes; torn between following a duty and abandoning it. 

“Head wound,” Green Jacket – Finn - shouts back over the roar of warming engines, “think we’re looking at a concussion. Get that ship started, we're gonna need to get him out of here.”

Concussion; alright, Poe can deal with that. It’s not the first time a hit to the head sent his thoughts scattering like laser blasts in a dogfight. He quickly takes stock, running through the steam of available information in his head: His name is Poe and he's with the Resistance though he doesn’t currently know where he is or why. Whatever his purpose, he didn’t come alone and while it’s not exactly reassuring that he can’t remember his companions, it’s a starting point. Poe is a pilot- a damn good one at that- and intuition is ingrained in his nervous system. If he can’t gather his thoughts, he’s just going to have to switch to automatic, let his body call the shots until his short term memory kicks back into gear. Whatever happened here, it's more pressing then losing a few faces and names. “Hey, it’s better than dead,” he rasps as he rides out the throbbing in his head. When the pain fades, he’s sure he’ll believe it.

“Yeah,” Finn says with a smile he means to hold back, “It’s better than dead. Which is what you would have been if you tried attacking someone with that,” he half jokes as he points his head towards the rubble. “Want to run that plan across me hot shot? You know they wear helmets, right? Wanted to give someone one last headache before they killed you? Can you even see straight?”

“Don’t need to see straight to defend my honor,” Poe responds and offers a wink he didn’t think he had the strength to muster.

Finn shakes his head on automatic, almost as though he was expecting the remark. “You’ll have a lot of defending to do when we get you back to the base. Next time, we’re keeping you in the air, buddy.”

Yes, Poe thinks, but he’s losing the strength to respond so he simply nods. Finn is going to take him back to the base, Finn know he feels more comfortable with air under his wings. “Sounds like a plan to me,” Poe finally replies and sticks his arm up when Finn gestures to move him. Sitting up spins his head and threatens to bring the sick out of his stomach. Gritting his teeth through the worst of it, he feels a hand cup the back of his neck, fingers splayed to cover its length in support. Going off instinct, Poe shuts his eyes as he leans into the touch, briefly losing himself in the contact. He doesn’t question their proximity or the desperate way Finn holds onto him as he rides a fresh wave of pain. Their buddies, after all, though the word sticks to the walls of Poe’s chest and pulsates there. 

“Did I miss something?” Finn asks, eyes narrowing at him with concern, “how could I have missed something?” Before Poe can shake his head, Finn invites himself to explore Poe’s body, moving his free hand down the side of Poe’s neck, across his shoulders, and down the plane of his stomach. Pulling and pushing at fabric, his fingers brush against the line of skin exposed on Poe’s abdomen which causes the pilot to suck in a breath. “Where else does it hurt?”

“What doesn’t hurt?” Poe asks, suddenly exhausted. "It's fine, I'm fine - nausea never killed anyone." 

Sitting back on his heels, Finn runs his hand over Poe’s chest one last time before separating himself from the pilot. “Can’t say the same for you, but I’m getting better at this,” he says, a shy smile spreading across his face, “found you without a coordinated Resistance strike.” There’s a slight tease to his voice, a clue that Poe clearly misses as it has Finn looking at him curiously for the first time.

Unsure how to respond, Poe goes with his gut: “Well, the explosion helped; think that’s cheating.”

To Poe’s advantage, his response gets Finn to glance over his shoulder towards the ruins for the first time. “We’ll need to start being more careful,” he says, “Maybe bring more troops if the General can spare them. Knowing the Order, mines are probably not the only thing they’ll start using to cover their tracks. At least it means we’re getting close, right? They wouldn’t waste their time otherwise. If we keep them busy, they have to have a chance, right?” When Finn turns back towards him, there’s an expression on his face that makes Poe wince.

“Yeah,” Poe responds because it feels right, “we just have to keep it up until they’re back.”

Finn’s expression softens, though doesn’t go away entirely. “Don’t go getting yourself killed in the process. I can’t lose you too, Poe.”

Poe’s been a pilot since he can remember and he owes his survival to his ability to spot thought patterns and predict movements before his enemies executed them. As it stands, he doesn’t miss the way Finn deflates at his confession, shoulders rounding until he practically caves in on himself. Poe also didn’t miss the frightened hitch in Finn’s voice when he originally found Poe nestled in the ruins. Finn’s combat ready and lethal in a way that makes Poe feel secure, like he knows he can shut his eyes around him without having to worry, but his pat down was delicate; lingering where it could have been quick and thorough. Buddy, Finn called him, but Poe feels a longing deep in the pit of his gut that’s nothing short of primal. Judging by the fact that the resistance fighter is still actively leaning towards him, Poe takes a gamble on what that means.

Reaching up with his hand, he gently cups Finn’s face, thumb tracing the length in his cheek bone. Finn jumps at the contact, nearly freezes when Poe pulls himself towards him.

The kiss is gentle and short. It has blood rushing towards Poe’s head until his ears are echoing with it. There’s a second when they pull away from one another where Poe registers saucer wide eyes before Finn is gripping the back of his neck with an intensity that wasn’t there before. Poe doesn’t have a chance to second guess himself before he feels Finn on him; warm and wet and so, so good. The glide of lips is smooth, momentarily pulling Poe away from his pain. A flick of a tongue has Poe feeling lightheaded and he sways from the force of it. Finn catches him before he hits the ground, he's starting to think Finn is good at that. 

“Are you krifflin’ kidding me?” a forgotten about voice calls from behind. “You’re really doing this now? I’d say it’s about time but we need Poe out of here, _stat_.”

Poe raises as eyebrow, “Wait, you mean this isn’t a thing then?”

“What do you mean this isn’t a thing?” Finn leans back, careful not to disentangle himself from Poe completely, “Poe -what’s the last thing you remember?”

Poe can’t help himself. “C’mon, after a kiss like that, not much.”

As far as confessions go, it's not the most outright, but it has Finn’s mouth parting in a way that makes Poe want to tilt his head for another taste. With his vision fading again, he figures he needs to conserve his energy and save it for a more appropriate time. There’s still the short walk to the ship and stars knows how long the journey back will take. Though he may have misinterpreted Finn’s behavior, he takes comfort in the fact that Finn’s arms are still wrapped around him and remain so until he’s settled on a makeshift medbay head back to base.

**Author's Note:**

> Short and sweet! Feedback is love. Prompt me or say hi on [tumblr](http://dead-walking.tumblr.com/)


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